Those who know me well, know that my doorway to preaching was storytelling. It was my first love.
When I was twelve, a mini-me seventh grader in my 7-12 school, I went to observe my first speech competition. The storytelling category hooked me almost immediately. I admired the way older kids (such mature adult-seeming high schoolers) could—using different tones of voice, facial expressions, and focal points—completely transport their listeners into the world of an embodied Grimm’s fairy tale in just a few minutes. I wanted to do that, too.
Now, I wasn’t a storytelling natural. I was inclined to include every detail on the page (my nearest and dearest know my impulse to still do this when answering seemingly simple questions; if there’s more context or background to share, why wouldn’t I?) and I had to work to overcome my shyness and fear of public speaking.
Over the course of the next six years, I mastered the art of plotting a story from setup to climax to denouement; I found my own interpretive angle and ways to inhabit and embody characters in relatable ways; and I traveled with my team most Saturdays of the winter to tell six-minute stories to judges, competitors, and friends.
When I went to college, I studied storytelling and its component arts. I traveled to Tanzania thinking I’d come back with more folktales. It didn’t take long to realize that this goal was 1) very ambitious and 2) didn’t acknowledge that they weren’t actually my stories. But I did come back with lots of stories. Lots of first-person stories of my own experiences.
Storytelling went slightly dormant for me while I was trying to figure out to do with a degree in it. It led me to divinity school (studying a different kind of stories and meaning making) and to telling the stories of faith with a particular ear for connecting them to our everyday lived experience.
Ten years of ministry under my belt, in the fall of 2019, I started dipping my toe into the waters of consulting work in addition to my full-time ministry. My dear friend, the brilliant Rev. Rebecca Anderson, founded earshot stories a few years before and had been traveling all over the U.S. and Canada leading workshops on the theology and practice of storytelling for religious and secular non-profit communities and organizations. She helped them articulate their own stories and taught them how first-person storytelling builds connection and the muscles for intimacy and vulnerability that can really strengthen peoples’ sense of belonging and ties to community. She coached folks to tell their own stories and often even helped them put on a show! The work was abundant, and I started tagging along in a kind of apprenticeship to do some of this work back in Des Moines and wherever else I might be needed.
Then the pandemic hit. Needless to say, any travel or development of non-pandemic response special projects fell by the wayside.
But now it’s now. The Disciples of Christ (a sister denomination of my home United Church of Christ) is hosting a series of Story Hours around the country this year as part of their larger Church Narrative Project. They needed a coach and Rebecca’s hands are full with her own congregations in Chicago. So last night I led my first workshop with folks gathered on zoom from Illinois, Wisconsin, and Michigan. We went over some of the basics of what makes a great story, did some exercises to surface some story nuggets, and I told my own story to help demonstrate the form and get their wheels turning. It was so much fun!
The story I told is below. If you know someone/an organization that could benefit from the gifts of good storytelling, check out earshot or send me a message. I’m happy to be consulting with them!
Skipping Stones
I’m 14. We’re on vacation on the North Shore of Lake Superior, staying in Duluth. We find a quiet stretch of shoreline and even though the water’s frigid, shoes are off, pants legs rolled, and we’re wading. My brothers (Josh must have been 17 and Dan around 10) and my dad are wading with a purpose. They’re scouring the stones made round and smooth by the big waters of this great lake, looking for flat ones.
When they find a few likely suspects, they get into position and start hurling them out over the water, skipping stones. The water is quiet and those stones fly. We all hold our breath, counting their skips: “One two three four five! That one skipped five times!” “But look at that! I got mine to go seven!”
And then the competition is on: “Wait for it! Eleven!” “Seventeen! Did you see that! I skipped mine SEVENTEEN TIMES!!”
Their delight is palpable and contagious. But as much as I’m enjoying it, I also feel outside it. I don’t know how to skip stones. And this is clearly not the moment for a remedial tutorial (especially given how competitive I can be). By 14 I had already learned the lesson that sometimes girls just watch boys do things.
Skip ahead. I’m 20. It’s the summer after sophomore year of college and there is a boy coming to visit me on the farm. We’re friends but maybe there’s energy for more than that? We’re both studying abroad in the fall, in different locations, so probably nothing will come of it. But friendship with a bit of frisson is fun.
He arrives and he’s got his bike with him. So I grab mine and we head out down the road, making our way to the nearest landing of the Minnesota River. I figure we’ll ditch the bikes and just scrabble along the banks, but he finds a sandbar and shouts: “Lindsey, you’ve got to get down here! There are great stones for skipping.”
I go a bit rigid (and feel a bit embarrassed admitting it): “I don’t know how.”
No laughter. No shame. No “how are you a farm kid and you don’t know how to skip stones?!” Instead he says: “Well get down here and I’ll show you!”
And it’s as simple as that. Beginner’s mind. He shows me what I’m looking for. How to weigh a smooth stone in your hand, how to reel back and send it skimming out over the water, how to give it the momentum it needs for that satisfying skip. The first one I send out is a depth charge. But again, no laughter (at least not at me). Just an abundance of stones and an abundance of chances and an opportunity to try again.
So I do. And with the first one that has that satisfying chk-chk-chk skipping sound, we celebrate. And we spend the rest of the afternoon scouring the sandbar and skipping stones and talking about whatever 20-year-olds do when the whole world is ahead of them.
Skip ahead. I’m 22. It’s the summer after college graduation. I’m working as a coordinator of youth programming at Holden Village, a Lutheran retreat center in the Cascade Mountains of central Washington state. It’s both a glorious and a crap job. Trying to coax high schoolers out of their cabins before nine o’clock in the morning in a location with no cell phone reception or electronics while their parents are in educational seminars so we can explore the glories of a beautiful creation and get back before dark.
Today, we manage to get a few takers. And after a couple hours on a mountain trail, we’ve reached our destination. An azure mountain lake. Glacier fed. The color of the sky turned up to eleven. The water is freezing, but our feet are tired and boots and socks come off so we can wade. As we’re breaking for sustenance and chatting up the kids, I’m also scouring the shore for likely stones.
With the first one I send skimming out over the water, my colleague Vaino, a Lutheran pastor from Namibia on exchange for the summer, whips his head up and says: “Lindsey, what did you just do?!”
“I skipped a stone!”
“I’ve never seen this. You must teach me.”
And so I do. I show him what to look for. How to find stones with a flat, smooth side. How to weigh them in his hand and reel back to send them skimming out over the water. Vaino’s a quick study. He doesn’t send out too many depth charges before he’s skipping with the best of them. I tell him about my brothers that summer in Duluth and now he’s competing against them, too. For me, it’s not about the competition. It’s just about the joy of that chk-chk-chk flying out across the water.
Skip ahead to now. I take my dog Chet out for walks and whenever we’re near water, I like to give him plenty of leash so he can sniff around and I can too. Looking for likely stones. If I send out a depth charge, I laugh. Because the sound is funny and there are so many more stones and opportunities to try. I skip stones because I love the feel of them in my hand. I skip stones because I love the sound of them skimming out over the water. And I skip stones because I can.
The many years of listening to you masterfully tell stories helps me hear your voice spring right off the page in every post you put forth. Such a gift, friend. Thank you for continuing to tell stories that are woven with that perfect balance of self-awareness, humor, humility, and reality.
And once again, your next chapter of life shows itself in a delightful and authentic way. Love everything about this!